


Shipwrecked

by bfcg



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull Holiday Exchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 12:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5665921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bfcg/pseuds/bfcg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian loathes the water. Liquid, he feels, is for consumption only - and intoxication preferably - and under no circumstances should he actually be immersed in the stuff. Even more than the water, he loathes the cold. </p><p>And while it never occurred to him to add ‘being stranded on a shoddily constructed raft in middle of the Waking Sea with only a Qunari for company’ to the list, he’s beginning to suspect he loathes it most of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shipwrecked

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'swimming' prompt from damnyoualex. Happy holidays!
> 
> ...There is swimming in this, I swear.

Dorian loathes the water. Liquid, he feels, is for consumption only - and intoxication preferably - and under no circumstances should he actually be immersed in the stuff. Even more than the water, he loathes the cold.

And while it never occurred to him to add ‘being stranded on a shoddily constructed raft in middle of the Waking Sea with only a Qunari for company’ to the list, he’s beginning to suspect he loathes it most of all.

“I think I’m going to be sick again,” he announces.

“Well, you know the rules. Do it over your edge of the boat, big guy.”

“You’ve strapped a handful of planks together with - what is this? Rope? Seaweed? _This_ qualifies as a boat as much as _those_ ,” Dorian gestures vaguely in his unfortunate raftmate’s direction, “qualify as pants.”

The Qunari shrugs. “They’re comfy.”

“Well _I’m_ not.”

A particularly choppy set of waves hits their _raft_ and Dorian groans, retching for the third time over the edge. His stomach is long empty, but it makes a truly valiant effort at regurgitation regardless.

A massive, soothing weight settles itself between Dorian’s shoulderblades, rubbing small circles as he coughs. It takes a moment for Dorian to register that it’s the Qunari.

“Shit, you really don’t mix well with water travel, huh?” he says sympathetically as Dorian dry-heaves a last time. “Was it this bad for you on the ship?”

Dorian shakes his head. He spent the last of his birthright money on a third-class ticket aboard the ill-fated Caspar’s Pride, and a pouch of small pills that some Nevarran merchant swore would keep his stomach calm. Concentrated nug shit, most likely. But against all odds they’d worked, up until the point Dorian was forced to jump ship without them. The constant gentle pressure on his shoulders feels unexpectedly good, and eventually the nausea subsides.

“Thank you,” Dorian manages.

The Qunari’s arm falls away and he nods. “No problem. I’m the Iron Bull, by the way.”

Dorian stretches out on his back and throws an arm over his face, in the vain hope that perhaps obscuring the sight of the sea, the raft, and the Iron Bull will make the lot disappear.

“Cremisius Aclassi. Charmed,” he says.

He’s been borrowing the name of the Pavus horsemaster’s runaway son, a man he’s never met and knows nothing about but has taken to impersonating all the same. If anything, Dorian figures he’s doing the real Aclassi - wherever the man may be - a favor. He’s undoubtedly garnering a reputation for being far more handsome than he actually is.

There’s a long pause and then the Iron Bull, voice twitching with amusement, asks, “Okay if I call you Krem?”

Dorian lifts his arm from his eyes, suspicious. “No,” he says firmly. “It’s Cremisius.”

“Right. Whatever you say, big guy,” the Bull chuckles.

The raft creaks slightly as the Iron Bull lowers himself to lay side-by-side, hands folded over his considerable belly.

“Well, my boys will find us soon, don’t worry,” the Iron Bull says, with a confidence Dorian doesn’t share. “They’ve been tailing the ship, no more than a day or so back. Won’t take long.”

“Your boys?”

“My men,” the Bull clarifies. “I lead a mercenary company - the Chargers.”

“The Bull and the Chargers. Cute.”

The Iron Bull grins. “I thought so. Wait til you see the ship.”

Dorian can’t help but notice that he has an oddly charming smile. A one-sided curl of scarred lips with a corresponding crinkle of his sole eye….There’s an almost boyish playfulness about it all that Dorian toys with calling actually _handsome_.

More likely, Dorian assures himself, he’s just never seen a Qunari smile before.

There were dirty pictures passed around in the Circles, of course – he’d huddled with pubescent friends over a worn magazine stolen from someone’s uncle or brother, willing himself to snicker at the crude depictions of heavy-breasted female Qunari and flip quickly past the impossibly tall, broad-shouldered men. One of his older cousins, Gaia, used to read those smutty novels with titles like “Ravaged Enchantress” or “Captive in the Waves.”

A few of them were decent.

“Yeah, we were on a job,” the Iron Bull continues. “Information-gathering for some compt. Sneak on board, grab the intel, signal my men. You know the drill.”

Dorian nods along as if he does, pretending it’s not lingering memories of that one particular scene in ‘Captive in the Waves’ combined with the Bull’s unexpectedly appealing smile that brings him to ask, “And the rest of your men, are they Qunari, too?”

But the Bull shakes his head. “Nah, we got all sorts. Besides, I’m actually Tal-Vashoth now. Have been for…shit, I dunno - two, three years? I was Ben-Hassrath before.”

That gets Dorian’s attention. As it would anyone from eastern Tevinter, where the likes of Gaia’s literary preferences are outweighed only by the very real (or so Dorian’s been raised to believe) propaganda warnings of potential Qunari infiltrators in Qarnius! Marnus Pell! The Magisterium itself!

“Vishante kaffas, you’re a _spy?_ An actual Qunari spy?”

“ _Was_ ,” the Bull says hastily, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Very much _was_.”

“Not anymore?”

“Nope. Still got all the training up here -” he taps the base of one horn “- but I don’t report back anymore. What happens with the Iron Bull, stays with the Iron Bull.”

Dorian supposes this is acceptable. Not as if he has much choice, his options at the moment seem to be ‘stay on the raft with the former Ben-Hassrath’ or ‘jump off and swim until his arms give out’. And he’d rather not drown.

“So, Cremisius. You wanna talk about it?”

“About what? The weather? The shipwreck? The secret to maintaining flawless facial hair while cast adrift at sea?”

“About whatever you’re running from,” Bull says easily, and Dorian’s heart lurches in his chest.

“And what makes you think I’m running from something?” he says carefully.

The Bull shrugs. “Eh, I’m a people person.”

This seems innocuous enough, so Dorian doesn’t respond. After all, he’s been accused of many potentially damning exploits in his life. Outright denial has never much been his thing, but he’s grown surprisingly good at non-committal silence when needed.

The Iron Bull seems willing to let this be for perhaps thirty seconds. Then he fixes Dorian with a self-assured gaze and says: “Also, when the ‘raiders’ boarded you hid your face. Which means either you recognized them, or you knew they were looking for you. Maybe both. Plus raiders are usually mix-and-match, not all ‘vints, and they don’t carry the best damn weapons I’ve seen this side of Seheron. Now normally I’d be the first target for any suspicious ‘vints - cause, you know, horns - but they breezed right by me. One of them was a Templar by training, a southern one. Kept his shield angled down to deflect magic away from the face, had a vial of lyrium hidden on his hip. So they were looking for a very specific someone, someone who’s a mage, and you have reason to believe it was you.”

Kaffas. The Bull is exactly right, of course. Halward Pavus is not a man who half-arses what he would undoubtedly call _‘a rescue attempt, Dorian - for your own good’_. No, he sends the best guards. With the finest weapons. In impeccable disguises.

Problem is, he sent them to the Abrexis house too, and it seems Dorian has a good memory for faces - at least when he suspects they may well be the last he’ll see.

Dorian glares.

The Bull just points to himself. “Ben-Hassrath, remember?”

“Very well, oh illustrious Ben-Hassrath,” Dorian sighs, “you’ve routed me out. They weren’t raiders. They were guards. And yes, they were looking for me.”

“Can I ask why?” Bull presses gently.

Dorian falters. The truth - at least the full version - is hardly an option. The most plausible potential explanation is ‘runaway slave’, but he’s not fool enough to sit here with his manicured nails and perfect facial hair and try _that_ one on a Ben-Hassrath. Former or otherwise.

Instead, he settles on: “Ah…I’m not exactly welcome back home.”

“I see. Deserter?” the Bull suggests - and yes, it distinctly has the air of a suggestion rather than a guess.

Thus far Dorian hasn’t included any variation of ‘fugitive’, ‘runaway’, or even ‘garden-variety scoundrel’ in his Cremisius Aclassi story. To the few who’ve asked, he’s a laetian headed south for work. It’s already a far less glamorous identity than he’d hoped to use for his first foray into impersonation, and he’s not thrilled about adding ‘deserter’ to the mix, but…

“Yes,” Dorian reluctantly says, unable to think of any better explanation. “Fourteenth Imperial Cavalry. I was a battlemage.”

He hopes the Bull will leave it at that. And to his great surprise, the man actually does.

Thankfully the water calms some hours later, and with it Dorian’s stomach. They pass the evening waiting for Bull’s ‘men’ well enough. Being a mage has it’s advantages: Dorian can freeze a bit of ice and then melt it, saving them both the bowel-twisting agony of drinking salt water.

The Iron Bull, apparently, can dip a hand straight into the sea and pull out a wriggling trout the length of Dorian’s forearm. It’s remarkably impressive, especially given that the man only has one eye. He’s about to say so when the Bull rips the damn thing’s spine out in one unexpectedly bloody swipe that makes Dorian consider with newfound horror the expression “to gut like a fish”.

“Fasta vass, that’s… _ugh_ ,” he mutters, turning away.

“You wanna give me a hand with some fire here, mage-boy?” Bull calls out with a grin.

Dorian conjures a fire and sits on the raft’s edge while the Bull cooks the trout. He absently trails a hand through the sea, watching the horizon for traces of Bull’s men.

“Seems like you’re feeling better,” Bull remarks.

“Marginally.”

“You hungry?”

Dorian shakes his head. “Best not push my luck,” he says, despite the fact that any future biography of his may well be titled ‘Dorian Pavus Unwisely Pushes His Luck Yet Again’.

“Well, if you get hungry let me know. I can catch another, no problem.”

“Ah, thank you. That’s rather impressive, by the way. Where’d you learn to…?” Dorian imitates the fish-gutting motion.

“Seheron,” the Bull says. “I had a friend - fish merchant, nice guy. Made these fish things wrapped in bread. I talked to him every morning. One day rebel assholes tried to make him poison me. He died in the crossfighting with a knife in his throat.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah,” Bull sighs.

Dorian says nothing more. Discussing Seheron seems unwise and likely to result in having to take the ‘jump off and swim until his arms give out’ course of action. Especially considering that Dorian most certainly does not know enough about the Imperial cavalry to hold up his end of the conversation as ‘Cremisius Aclassi, army deserter’. Instead he returns to his contemplation of the Waking Sea and lets the Bull finish eating in silence.

“Hey, you wanna play chess?” Bull says suddenly, licking the last of the trout off his fingertips.

“Oh yes, let me just dig out the ‘for shipwrecks only’ set I keep stored on my person.” Dorian snarks and pretends to pat himself down, not unaware that Bull’s eye is following the path of his hands. “Wouldn’t you know it, I appear to have left it behind.”

Bull just chuckles. “You’re awfully mouthy for someone who spent the better part of the day blowing chunks, you know.”

“And you’re awfully -” Before Dorian can finish the Bull’s hand is on his bare shoulder, pulling him down to lay side-by-side on the raft. Kaffas, that hand encompasses nearly his entire shoulder. Calloused and warm, a welcome shield from the chilled wind on his exposed skin, and so very, very -

“ - large,” Dorian accidentally finishes, hoping the Bull doesn’t catch the slight involuntary hitch of breath.

If he does, at least he has the decency not to point it out.

“Right, I’ll start,” Bull says. “Pawn to E4.”

“Are you serious?”

“You got a better idea for how we can pass the time, big guy?”

He does, but he’s not going to say it aloud.

Instead Dorian shuts his eyes and pictures the massive ornate board Alexius kept in his study.

“Very well. Ah…pawn to E5.”

“Saarebas to F3.”

They play three games. The first two Dorian loses miserably. Chess is a game that favors measured strategy and patience, and Dorian is more the sort to be found careening wildly away from the flaming wreckage of his target, be it a potential attacker, his childhood rooms in Qarinus, or - oh yes, his entire life.

But the third game is closer, and by the time they reach the fourth Dorian feels up to making a genuine attempt at beating the Bull with the only technique that ever earned him a victory against Felix.

“Praetor to E5.”

“Can’t do that, your Praetor’s on B7,” the Bull says immediately.

“I have another on D7.”

“No, my Tamassran captured that one, remember?”

“It most certainly did not.”

“Yes it d - hey, wait,“ the Bull laughs, pushing himself up on one arm to scrutinize Dorian. “Hang on. Are you trying to sneak your pieces back onto the board?”

“No,” Dorian lies.

“You are!” Bull crows, looking delighted.

“I am not, that’s absurd!”

“You totally are, you cocky little shit!”

“Vishante kaffas, _fine_ ,” Dorian relents. When the Bull doesn’t stop laughing he can’t help but start, and reaches over to thwack the much larger man soundly on the chest.

“Ow,” Bull chuckles. “So. He’s pretty. He gets seasick. He cheats at chess. Anything else I should know?”

“I draw fantastic diagrams,” Dorian informs him. “I can recommend a wine for nearly any meal, and I have perfect teeth.” He turns his head and bares them for Bull’s consideration. It’s meant as a joke, still, and he expects a joke in return.

But the hand that reaches out to cradle his jaw is weather-cracked and rough, missing the top joint of two fingers, and altogether more gentle than it has any business being.

Dorian’s heart, the traitor, picks up its pace.

“Hmm,” the Bull muses, voice a low rumble now as he turns Dorian’s head side to side. The motion makes Dorian feel oddly on display and it should not be as arousing as it is, surely. “Look at that. You sure do.”

A massive thumb brushes Dorian’s lower lip. This, at least, is familiar territory. His mouth has always been a particular selling point to potential interests, and Dorian knows as the thumb caresses - and there is no other word for it than that, really, _caresses_ \- exactly what thoughts are running through the Bull’s head. He’s heard them from men before. _Would look so good wrapped around a cock. Sucking on my fingers. Forming a pretty round ‘O’ as he comes_ …

Sure enough, the Bull slowly pushes his thumb just inside, just far enough to touch on Dorian’s teeth as if still under the guise of confirming their excellence.

Yes, Dorian’s heart _is_ a traitor. The damned thing is pumping blood in a distinctly south-ward direction now. And its influence, surely, is also what prompts Dorian to meet the Bull’s thumb with his own tongue, light enough that he can deny it later if need be.

But he wants to know what the Bull tastes like. A bit of salt from the Waking Sea, and the pad of his thumb is rough and warm. Nail cut short, and despite the appeal of veritable _claws_ raking shivers down your spine, digging slightly in as they cup your ass and spread, a mountain of a torso between your thighs and scarred lips pressed and panting against your own, Dorian…can…

…lose his train of thought, apparently.

The Iron Bull leans in slightly. For a moment Dorian is sure - absolutely positive - that he’s going to kiss him. How easy it would be for his thumb to slip down to the tip of Dorian’s chin, his index finger to curl just below…and Dorian’s not a small man himself; it isn’t often he finds himself on the bottom end of a height differential, needing to have his chin tipped so he can be kissed…

But instead the Bull pulls away with a last swipe to the pad of Dorian’s lower lip. He chuckles, low and breathy, and looks away.

Kaffas. There’s a heavy, longing feeling in Dorian’s chest; a feeling he usually associates with the moment after yet another lover gives him a hasty kiss and runs out. Disappointment. Which is absurd because that would imply he not only thought the Bull was about to kiss him, he actually _wanted_ it, and wanted it badly.

He releases a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding as quietly as possible.

“Well, what about you, then?” Dorian asks, attempting nonchalance as he pushes himself to sitting. “I suppose if we’re going to be stuck here together we may as well cover the basics.”

“Fair enough,” Bull agrees. “What do you want to know?”

“Well…where were you born, I suppose?”

“Qunandar. You?”

“Qarinus. And…you fought in Seheron?”

“Ten years. Part of my Ben-Hassrath days.”

“Why aren’t you Ben-Hassrath anymore?”

The Bull sighs, this apparently being a more personal question than the first two.

“A lot of reasons, I guess. Par Vollen wanted me to choose between the Qun and my men. For any real Qunari that’s not even a question. Wasn’t for me, either. Nah, to be honest, I’d been kind of a shit Qunari for years by that point,” he chuckles. “K - uh, my lieutenant thinks it all started when I decided I liked hot cocoa. ‘S no such thing in the Qun, see. Just coffee. After that…I dunno. I realized I’m a better commander when my men are _my men_ and not all named ‘Sten’. That I like redheads more than blondes - although black hair is damn pretty too.”

He winks - blinks? - at Dorian and Dorian flushes, actually flushes.

“My turn,” Bull says. “You’re a pyromancer?”

“Yes, but as my core elemental. I actually specialized in necromancy. And, more recently, temporal manipulation.”

“No shit. Time magic? I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Well, it’s mostly theoretical at this point. But I have an idea that with precise manipulation of the Veil around the nearest confluence of arcane energy - cracking it, a bit like a whip - one could cause time in a small surrounding area to speed up or slow down,” Dorian pauses, realizing that he’s waving his hands in a manner alarmingly reminiscent of Alexius. “It’s fascinating, really. I’ll explain better once we get off this damn raft.”

“You gonna draw me one of those diagrams?” Bull teases.

“I will.”

“I hope you do.”

“I mean it, Bull.”

“So do I.”

“No, really, I draw absolutely fantastic diagrams,” Dorian insists. “Everyone says.”

“Doing the Aclassi name proud, huh?” the Bull chuckles, and for a second Dorian almost instinctively corrects him: _it’s Pavus._

Then he remembers he’s still pretending to be Cremisius, son of a servus publicus and apparently a deserter to boot. That his birthright is long pawned to that rat Ponchard, for a ticket aboard a ship currently drifting towards the bottom of the sea. That the reason he’s moonlighting under the Aclassi name at all is because…

_Get out. You are no son of mine._

Dorian shuts his eyes.

All at once something pitted and bone-deep washes over him, a feeling his instinctively labels as yet another bout of nausea before realizing that, absurdly…he’s homesick. For three months he’s been on the run. Three months with the single-minded goal of putting as much distance between himself and Tevinter as possible…and naturally now that he’s succeeded, all Dorian wants is to go straight back. To be _home_ , nevermind the fact that home is a country that would see him killed, quieted, and changed for his very nature. A house that he entered a coveted heir and fled an escaped prisoner.

Dorian opens his mouth but can’t find it in himself to quip back.

But the Bull is already reaching as if to comfort him. “Aw, shit. I hit a nerve.”

“No no, it’s fine,” Dorian brushes him off.

“Nah, of course it’s not. Fuck, that was a stupid thing to say. I should’ve realized…”

The Bull falls silent except for a muttered ‘shit’ a moment later.

“You asked earlier why I was on the run,” Dorian says quietly. “Why I deserted.”

Bull nods.

“I prefer the company of men,” Dorian tells the immense emptiness of the Waking Sea. “The…Imperial calvary adopts something of a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy where that’s concerned.”

He has no idea if this is true, but it seems plausible enough and he’s banking on the assumption that no Qunari knows either.

“Someone asked?” the Bull says.

“Well, no. It may have escaped your keen Ben-Hassrath notice, but I have something of a predilection for running my mouth at times,” Dorian admits. “I’m afraid I wasn’t particularly good at the ‘don’t tell’ bit.”

To his credit the Bull doesn’t mock. Doesn’t make a joke the likes of which Dorian has heard all too many times before. So Dorian keeps talking.

“Back home, anything between two men is about pleasure only, and nothing more,” he explains. “Eventually you…learn to stop hoping. To content yourself with a hollow marriage and a lifetime of lies and denial. I tried, for a while. It didn’t work out. Clearly.”

It’s a rather roundabout way of saying ‘if you had any idea the number of whores I’ve drunkenly called ‘Rilienus’’, but the Iron Bull is nodding so Dorian supposes he’d made himself clear enough.

“Well, you ask me - you did the right thing, leaving. Tevinter’s a fucked-up place,” Bull sighs. “Hand the power to the crap magisters and send all the good men running. I’ll never understand that damn country.”

“Would you think me terribly strange if I said I miss it?” Dorian laughs humorlessly.

“Nah. Not at all.”

Neither of them say anything else for a long time. The sun sets, leaving only the sounds of the Waking Sea to remind Dorian where they are. The light slosh of waves lapping gently at the edges of the raft is oddly soothing when it’s not causing his stomach to revolt. Occasionally there’s the _plip_ of a fish surfacing. The slow creak of wood, and…

Dorian’s never been this close to a Qunari before. What could be salvaged from the remains of the Casper’s Pride made a raft of reasonable size, but not so large that he and the Bull can put any substantial amount of distance between themselves. The rise and fall of the Bull’s chest, the slight readjustment to arrange his head on a less splinter-prone plank, the musky heat emanating from his immense body…it’s all no more than a half-foot away, and Dorian can feel everything. 

“You should get some sleep, Cremisius,” Bull says eventually. “I’ll keep an eye out for my boys. Heh, get it? ‘Cause…yeah.”

A few halfhearted protests later, Dorian is curled on his side facing away from the Bull, trying in vain to pillow his arm beneath his head in a way that’s - well, not comfortable, but that minimizes the possibility of losing an eye to a buckle in his sleep. If it does happen at least he’ll be in good company, Dorian thinks, and is glad the Bull can’t see him smile to himself.

He shifts slightly, tossing his right leg up and over an imaginary partner.

Eventually his eyes drift shut.

When they open again it’s to the sound of the Bull humming something tuneless and deep. It’s nothing like the songs his parents lulled him to sleep with as a child - the Tevinter upper crust doesn’t have lullabies so much as instructional Chantry tales set to melody. Dorian rolls onto his back and the Bull looks down, smiles.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

Dorian shakes his head. “I rather like it, actually. You have a nice voice,” he says before he thinks, and winces.

Despite what Dorian is fond of claiming, he is a man of many faults. Many lovers have called him out on this one in particular: the tendency to become something of a sap when he’s tired, or well-fucked, or already fallen to his second fault - the occasional inability to remember that just because this bottle is dry, one doesn’t necessarily need to open another. Beyond that, he is selfish. And while Felix insisted otherwise, Dorian maintains that he is not a particularly nice man, though not a cruel one either.

(There’s a fourth item that seventeen-year-old Dorian, fresh from his Harrowing and hiding his face as he ducks into a whorehouse of a particular sort, would list as well. Twenty-nine-year-old Dorian determinedly does not.)

“Thanks. ‘S a song my Tama used to sing,” the Bull says, unaware of Dorian’s momentarily lost train of thought.

“Your who?”

“Tama - Tamassran.”

“Aren’t they the ones in charge of your ghastly re-education business?” Dorian sits up, waving a hand in the air.

“Yeah,” Bull says quietly. “Yeah, a lot of them report straight to the Viddasala, but I don’t mean that – those ones. Tamassrans also raise the kids. Have a little cohort of ten or so each.”

“I thought Qunari don’t have family.”

“We - _they_ \- don’t. Doesn’t mean you grow up without people who care about you, though. Tamas are…I dunno, kind of like permanent group nannies? My Tama, she was the one who recommended me for the Ben-Hassrath. Not sure what I did to make her think ‘secret police’, I was a belligerent little shit as a kid – “

Dorian laughs. “Why am I not surprised?” he teases, and Bull smiles again in that sinfully charming way.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, big guy. So, you got family back in Tevinter?”

“A father.”

“He know where you are?”

Dorian sighs. “Not anymore, I hope.”

As soon as he says it he realizes this invites more questions that ‘Cremisius’ doesn’t have an answer for.

But thankfully the Bull jumps to his feet (with a surprising grace for a man of his size, Dorian notes) not a second later.

“There we go - look.” The Bull points, and on the horizon Dorian can just make out a rather rugged but well-cared for ship. Bull seems confident it’s his ‘men’, but Dorian doesn’t write off the possibility of more Pavus guards until he sees -

“The Horny Bulwark,” he reads, giving the Bull a cross look. “Really?”

Bull just shrugs, grinning wide. “Get it? ‘Cause the bulwark’s the little bit above the sides there, but it’s also my n-”

“Yes, thank you, I get it. That doesn’t make it funny.”

“Sure it does. Look, you’re smiling.”

“I am not.”

“You sure are, big guy.”

Be that as it may, the Horny Bulwark is not exactly instilling confidence in Dorian. At a quick glance he can see a rather bloodthirsty-looking elven woman who appears to be carrying no fewer than six daggers, a dwarf holding a bomb, and…a younger man whose darker complexion and undercut hair suggest a fellow Tevinter.

“Chief!” he bellows, and the Bull waves. “Figured I’d find your big ass floating out here somewhere.”

“Job’s a bust,” Bull calls back, at a volume liable to burst Dorian’s eardrum. “Throw down a rope; we’ll come to you.”

“On it!”

The man disappears from the ship’s edge. He is indeed Tevinter, if the accent is any confirmation, although it’s the rough sort of the lower-class.

“Who was that?” Dorian asks.

“That,” the Iron Bull says happily. “Is my second in command. Seems you may be familiar with him…a Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi?”

For a moment Dorian’s mind goes blank.

Then every swear he’s ever learned - Tevene, Orlesian, Trade, and other - storms through his head and out his mouth all at once in a violent parade of vulgarity that would earn him a lifetime ban from even the most disreputable of establishments in the Minrathous slums.

But the Bull, unfazed, lowers his considerable bulk into the Waking Sea. “Don’t call him that though - he goes by Krem. C’mon, we gotta swim to the ship.”

“Ah, no,” Dorian manages, face burning and cover blown. “You go on ahead. I’m perfectly content to just, um…float. I’m sure someone else will be along shortly.”

“Not gonna happen, big guy. Get in the water.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Do you know how to swim?”

“Vishante kaffas, of course I know how to - “

Dorian breaks off with a huff, realizing it was a genuine inquiry and not an insult. Most Tevinters don’t grow up with a private pond on their estates, and a tutor for everything. Lucano, for the swimming. His mother, for the drinking.

Bull treads water towards the edge of the raft, bracing his hands on either side of Dorian’s thighs to lift himself slightly up. He’s no more than a few inches away and Dorian is acutely, acutely aware of the Bull’s broad chest just _there_ ; trickles of the Waking Sea exploring paths down the weathered muscle and fat. Paths Dorian wants to follow with his fingers, his lips, anything…

“Look,” the Bull says, voice a quiet, deep rumble that Dorian feels as much as hears. “I already know one Cremisius Aclassi. Two might kill me. But the pretty, mouthy ‘vint who gets seasick and cheats at chess? The one who snores a little and likes my crap singing? Who’s on the run because he won’t lie about who he is? Shit, I might not know his name, but…”

The Bull surges up, one hand coming to the back of Dorian’s neck, and then Dorian is being kissed like he’s never been kissed before. Not like it’s perfunctory, an indulgence before they move on to the 'end game', as it were, but like this _is_ the end game. As if kissing Dorian is the most coveted experience a man could hope to have, and not because he has perfect teeth and plush lips and an impeccable pedigree but because he’s _him_.

Dorian doesn’t notice the raft tipping until he’s already slid clean off. Later he’ll appreciate how easily the Bull’s hands catch the backs of his thighs. How much strength it must take to effortlessly tread water while supporting the weight of a fully grown man in your arms and also continuing to kiss him breathless. But now…

Now his mind has room for nothing but _this_. The Bull’s tongue, hotter and longer and - kaffas, _far_ more talented than those of the men and elves Dorian’s kissed before, slowly exploring the curve of his lips. _Obscene_ , he thinks, and kisses deeper. He’s dimly aware that he’s holding Bull’s face in his palms, practically clinging to the man as if all Lucano’s instruction were for naught and he’ll drown if let go.

But he does break away, at last. Their mouths part and for a long, long moment Dorian can do little more but pant and shiver against the Bull. He realizes the leather on his calves is soaked, apparently because he’s hooked them around the Iron Bull’s thighs.

“… _yeah_. I want to get to know him better,” Bull murmurs against Dorian’s lips.

Somewhere in the distance there’s cheering. The damned Chargers, most likely.

The whole situation is absurd, really, and Dorian can’t help but duck his head down and laugh - a little aroused still, a little embarrassed at his own enthusiasm - like they’re teenagers caught rutting off in the Carastes Circle supply closet.

“I’m Dorian,” he says at last. “Dorian Pavus.”

“Dorian.” The Bull smiles and nods, his hands still broad and heavy and low on Dorian’s thighs. “So. You wanna swim to the ship with me, Dorian? Meet the boys?”

He does.

It occurs to Dorian as he untwines himself from the Bull and begins to breaststroke towards the Horny Bulwark that this is precisely the point in ‘Captive in the Waves’ where the dashing protagonist might re-evaluate his utter loathing of the water and concede that, perhaps, one can brave anything for the sake of possible-one-day-love. Or even just the prospect of really, really good sex.

But no, he very much still hates the water. Waves are ruining his moustache, his moisture-clogged leather feels like a pack of sinking druffalo attached to his limbs, and Dorian swears at one point he feels an actual fish, slimy and scaled and apparently in possession of more guts than he thought possible for a creature of such size, brush his leg. No one prepared him for this. Dorian’s well versed in weathering ambush, kidnapping, imprisonment, even blood magic and betrayal, but _this_? He needs a drink.

So he still hates the water, yes. And he hates the cold.

But he might be willing to re-evaluate the ‘being stranded on a shoddily constructed raft in middle of the Waking Sea with only a Qunari for company’ bit.


End file.
